Veteran's Village: Good News and Bad News

I have great, heartwarming news. 

My students came together to assemble and deliver about 50 bags of groceries and $200 in gift certificates for the food closet at Tallahassee Veteran's Village. 

We want them to know they are part of our holiday, that they are remembered and included and that we are thankful for their service. 

I took pictures of the food in my office (below) but my hands were full once we arrived at Veteran's Village. 

A gentleman there offered to show us the Food Closet. 

Kori, Anthony, Zoe, Zack, Margie and I climbed the stairs behind him and peeked into the room, 

That's where the bad news comes in.

The food closet is the size of a large walk-in closet, lined with wire shelves.

The food closet was, for all practical purposes, bare.

There are rows and rows of  creamed  corn. And there are rows of canned regular corn.  The only food in the dark refrigerator was husks of corn, which I was told were expired and would be thrown out. 

Other than a few cans of green beans and about ten boxes of off-brand rice-a-roni, the shelves were bare. 

We brought a lot - PopTarts and cereal and sauces and boxed dinners and  brownies and cookies --  but the Veteran's Village food closet needs more. A lot more. 

They need milk. They need bread. They need eggs. They need a little bit of help from a lot more of us.

Please consider donating to the Veteran's Village, and choose to serve those who have chosen to serve their nation. 

This summer, my AMH 2010 and 2020 students have been putting together supplies to bring to the Veterans Village so the local Heroes there know they are appreciated, honored and included in of *all* of our 4th of July celebrations.

Students have offered to  bring chips, dessert mixes, breakfast foods, and things to stock up the pantries there like sauces and mixes and nonperishable staples.

We will also be bringing "Party Stuff" like paper goods, cups, and decorations for a 4th of July Party, along with 
 gift cards for you to buy the meats and etc for the BBQ.

Besides that -- any special requests? 

Also -- I had asked the students to plan on coordinating our delivery on Friday morning around 11 or so -- does that work for you? If not let me know a better time so I can pass it on.

Thanks for all you do!!
Dr. Melissa Soldani
TCC Dept of History

We have all the paper goods and decorations, cups & plates etc.

WHAT WE NEED:

We need giftcards to Publix or Walmart

4th of July Party:  use your imagination, but nothing cooked/perishable. Chips, cookies...

Breakfasts: poptarts, muffins, grits, cereal, oatmeal

Drinks: coffee, tea, mixes

Bag/Box Meal Mixes: Hamburger Helper, Tacos, stuff like that -- 

Snacks: crackers, popcorn, pretzels, pudding mixes, dessert mixes

You can bring your donation anytime during the working day to the HSS division @ TCC and they will bring it to my office, or just bring it Friday morning. If you come by when I'm no there, take a picture of your bag and mark it with your name to make sure you get credit!

Let's have fun!!! 

Like Teaching a Fish to Ride a Bicycle*

As the football spirals down perfectly into my hands with a delicate amazing accuracy, she cheers. “That’s right Mom, catch it with your hands, not your body. Aren’t I good at this?”

Both of our faces get sweaty and red as we pass the ball between us 15 times without dropping; 26 times without dropping it; 31 times without dropping the ball.  

“You are. Amazing.” 

I can’t talk in full sentences because it’s 101 outside and also because I only recently discovered that my Magic Bullet  (blender) makes the best 100 calorie frozen margaritas in the world and if I talk more I’ll talk myself into going back inside and making one right now.

A little voice (mine) the size of an angry Leprechaun (have you ever seen a female Leprechaun? I haven’t.  I know there is only one girl Smurf, and I was taught to believe Smurfs are communists even though they are blue not red.  Anyway…) says to me, “Throwing a football?! What a waste of time an talent on a girl.  This is like a fish that likes to bicycle. Not natural, no good, no point.  Anyway, why the hell are you teaching her to throw a football? Where’s her Dad? What’s wrong with this world?”

I’ve had bad thoughts like these before.  Like everything else in the entire universe, they pass. I stand out of the storm of thoughts like a pedestrian standing out of the rain, dry, peaceful, observing. 

I let go of wanting anything more than this, here and now, and toss the football ball back to Zoe, trying to look all intimidating and Quarterback-like.

It’s a dead-on spiral. Whoot! She cheers and catches it, spins the ball to get the right grip, then reloads her arm, aims, and throws it back to me.

It goes above my head but I reach up and grab it then strike the Heisman Pose.

We laugh and go in to get ice and ask for nothing better than this, today. 

Camp Mommy: 6 Pack After Lunch

After the shower I walk out with a towel  my head.  Besides that, I'm fully dressed because I know better than to expect privacy once I open the door.

Every time I close my bathroom door the children are pulled towards it and held in some 15 foot hover-zone.

Zoe is editing a video (loudly); Zack is shirtless laying on my floor in sit-up position on my yoga mat, his feet are tucked under my heavy dumbbells.

 His "major goal" this summer is to get a a 6-pack of hard abs and pretty much will do any exercise you tell him will give him a 6-pack (including the very ab-specific carrying of groceries in from the car, try it, no joke).

As he exales, he says "Siiixxxxxxx" then back down, then up again, "sevvvvvennnnnn......"

I cock my head.
My special Mother senses tell me this is wrong, all wrong.
He can do better.
I must show him how.

"Zack, whenever someone walks in on you exercising, you must immediately go to 127. And say it like you're super happy and out of breath at the same time..."

He lays back, and starts to do a sit up but I stop him "WAIT, NO, I have to leave the room!"

First I think to take a step backwards and go back into the bathroom and blowdry my hair in this peaceful eye of the storm.  But it's too hot in the bathroom, so I walked across the room and out the bedroom door and closed it behind me.

I walked in and Zack, perfectly on cue said, "127!" and Zoe and I laughed.

Then he went back down, and on the way back up, said "NNNNNinnnnnnne"

"What? What?" I said, "Do you know what happens to campers who try to outsmart their Camp Director and fitness trainers?" and I threw myself down on the floor and wrestled with him and  tickled him until both our stomachs hurt from laughing.

Churros for Peace

Zack and a neighbor are llYing Mariokart. Zoe is reading. I order delivery Cuban Food and thank God for the USA.

The doorbell rings. I pay.

"Cuban food is here!" I announce.

Zack turns to his friend and says, "We are Cuban. That makes us Hispanic....I hold you don't want to kill us now that you know that.... I read about a lot of murdered Hispanics.."

His friend keeps racing MarioKart and says something like "uhhh ok"

I slip the guy him a still-hot churro (the one that would have been mine...) just for insurance, anyway.

So far, peace reigns.

Memorial Day

On Memorial Day, my student-soldier worked a twelve hour day and finished her Unit #1 essays.

HERO Scholarship*

TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (May 26, 2011) – Tallahassee Community College has established the HERO Scholarship, designed to help students who have overcome heroic odds pay for their college education. The driving force behind this scholarship is TCC professor Dr. Melissa Soldani-Lemon. She has made a significant personal pledge over the next ten years to initiate the launch of the scholarship.

Dr. Soldani-Lemon was inspired by the students in one of her American History classes to create the HERO Scholarship. David Lowe, a triple amputee Vietnam veteran was a student in her class when he tragically broke his femur just weeks before the semester ended and his injury forced him to drop out. He spent 19 months in a Veterans Affairs clinic rehabilitating from his injury. During this time, his classmates assembled care packages for David and other veterans in the clinic to demonstrate their appreciation for the veterans’ service.

Finally healthy, David was ready to return to campus this fall and finish his dream of receiving his college degree, but the financial cost of college was a problem. Seeing the need for additional support for our country’s veterans and the outpouring of support from David’s fellow classmates, Dr. Soldani-Lemon was moved to create the HERO scholarship, to help students that have overcome incredible odds attend TCC.

“Going to college is an act of optimism, and supporting someone else is a courageous act of optimism,” Dr. Soldani-Lemon said. “We cannot do enough for our veterans here at TCC.”

David Lowe is on track to return to TCC in the fall of 2011 with the help of the HERO Scholarship. He intends to finish up his final few classes and graduate in the spring of 2012. David plans to walk across the stage—against all odds—and accept his college degree from TCC next spring.

Dr. Soldani-Lemon believes that, “The HERO Scholarship is a measure of this institution. We want to do more than just help our veterans, we want to welcome them and ensure their success.” The HERO Scholarship and the newly opened TCC Veterans Center exemplify TCC’s commitment to veterans.

Those interested in supporting the scholarship can visit www.tcc.fl.edu/foundation and designate contributions to the HERO Scholarship or learn more about other scholarship opportunities. For more information, contact Ranie Thompson at (850) 201-6064 or thompsor@tcc.fl.edu.

The Best Lunch that Day

It had been too long since I'd seen David Lowe, the Cool Shiny Man. 

For the better part of two years, I brought gifts from the TCC community to ransom him out of the VA and bring him back to campus so he could rejoin the community and -- above all - graduate.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSK3xYx7IcM

So I invited him to join me and my kids for a very late lunch which happily turned out to be my third lunch that day.

When we arrived at Sonny's before David, I asked the host for a table that would accommodate his wheelchair. They moved a chair out of the space so that he could pull up easily. Zoe and Zack and I were deeply engrossed in an iPhone app that is a pretend friend who is  pretending to text you when Zack shouted "there he is!" and Zoe added "in the HAT! and he's WALKING!"

I jumped up.

I'd forgotten.

I couldn't believe I forgot that he was better, that he could walk, and of course he would walk.

Before he could arrive at our table, we'd slid a chair in for him and the kids never mentioned a word about it.

The conversation was the usual.

What to order, how the kids are, and why he isn't going to summer school.

We sit in shocked disbelief as David explains how new million dollar arm has cool  attachments like hunting knives and fishing poles.  Then the conversation turns to his classmates, mutual friends and then his family.

David's niece, he tells me, is very into genealogy, a secret passion of mine that I've decided not to explore until I finish two books and somehow have someone ask me to leave the country.

I won't leave the US without an invitation, it's my quirk.

David and I fall deeper and deeper into a conversation while passing the bottles of bbq sauce between us.

We both admit to being closet Genealogists and we both watch that awsome series "Who do you think you are" where people like Sarah Jessica Parker, Lionel Ritchie and Rosie O'Donnell traced their family history and uncovered amazing things.

While this is going on, I can't help how quiet Zoe is being. She is across from me, her face in what can't quite be called a scowl, but definitely frozen in disapproval.

This is strange, I tell myself and then silently try to figure out what could be going wrong here.

I know it wasn't David - she loves him.

I know it isn't the food - she cleared her plate.

I know it wasn't my fashion --  she approved my outfit before we arrive.

 I mentally step out of our conversation for a minute and certified there was no cursing.

Finally Zoe can't help herself any longer.

She stands up from her side of the table, walks around behind Mr. David and whispers in my ear, "I do NOT think it's appropriate that you are talking about vaginas."

I look back at her, stunned.

She leans in close to my face, and whispers sternly "Gynecologists are vagina doctors, I know that Mom. Change the subject."

David and I laugh, and then Zoe understands and laughs at herself.

Soon after that, our late lunch ends and we go off our separate ways, me with my kids and David with his freedom and fishing rod.

Small hours, small talk*

It's no secret around my house that I can't sleep.

 I think it started the night President Obama kept us all up with the announcement about Osama bin Laden.  

Really, as a responsible parent himself, I think he might have considered waiting until maybe 10am on Monday -- a SCHOOL DAY --  fter everyone got their kids to school, got themselves a decent cup of coffee and shook the weekend out of their brains. 

But no, since the President decided to keep me up that Sunday night, I pretty much have been waking up in the middle of the night on my own, wondering if maybe the world is passing me by a little.

I write a little, watch tv more than a little, and on more than one occasion I have eaten Pop Tarts.

Anyway, Zack begged me to please wake him up the next time I couldn't sleep so that the two of us could talk.  I agreed.

Last night, it happened again.

I woke up at 1:20am, put away dishes, folded laundry, watched Nurse Jackie, and  ate a bowl of chocolate chip cookies crumbled into Heavenly Hash ice cream.


As 3am was running into 4am, I was still wide awake, but hoping for some rest.

I set my iPhone alarm for as late as I could possibly imagine sleeping and still getting the kids to school,  tucked a pillow under my arm and headed to Zack's bunk bed.

He was sleeping on his back with his arms folded behind his head, looking like an angelic version of Huck Finn.

I slide in the bed next to him and pull the Transformers blanket over us.

I whisper soft enough that if he's in a really deep sleep I won't bother him.  "Zack, Zack, I'm here! Mommy is here! I'm ready to talk!"

He slides one of his arms around mine and moves his face to nuzzle on my arm.

I think he's probably asleep, but I try one more time. "Zack,  I'm here,  It's the middle of the night. What do you want to talk about?"

Zack squeezed my arm in a small hug, then let go. As he rolled over he mumbled, "Turns out I don't have anything to say just right now."

Zack is getting a much needed haircut at a place where the nice woman keeps spritzing his hair. 

She spritzes his hair, his ears, his face.

She apologizes and says

Magic Bullet Chronicles

My kids have been entertaining themselves like angels while I pour my attention into getting ready for online courses that start Monday.  They know there will be pizza at 6, and until then, they're on their own.

Zack wanders around the kitchen deciding to make himself a snack.

"Anything you want," I tell him, "Just make it yourself."

"Even a  chocolate shake?" he asks and I  laugh.


"Sure, but we don't have the ingredients. Sorry," I tell him while writing "interesting" feedback for incorrect answers to a multiple choice question about the Federalist Papers.

While I disappear into my virtual classroom, I don't notice him assemble milk (oh yeah! I bought that!), ice cream (oh, in the freezer, who looks there?) ovaltine (we had that? I'm impressed) and chocolate syrup.

I take a break and join him for the scooping and the pouring part.

Yes, he should be independent, but in my reality I end up cleaning up after that "independence" so it's better to gently join in at the beginning before chaos can ensue.

 "Do you want me to use the blender or the magic bullet?"

He shrugs while I pull out the small hand blender someone gave me for a holiday (Really. Someone gave *me* a kitchen appliance. For a holiday. I guess they had some eggnog before hitting up Walmart. But that's not the point of this story, so read on.)

"That one?" I hold up the magic bullet.

He nods, and asks, "What's it called again?"

I look down at his first grader toothless freckled face and smile, "Just call it whatever you want...." and go back to scooping the ice cream and miss the look on his face while he thought of what he said next.

Zack then announced -- without much consideration, I might add, as though he had been waiting for just this opportunity to name some thing that might need naming and hooray now it arrived -- "Yay! I'm going to call it PENIS!"

It's Time for a Parade (at least)

I found out when I woke up around midnight to check to see if I'd set my alarm for the morning, making sure I'd have enough time to get Zoe to school on crutches and escort her to the rehearsal for her 4th grade play.

Everyone in my world knows not to bother calling me late, that my phone and my brain turn on before dawn and off at dusk.

That's why it was weird to see I had 4 unread texts.


5/1/11 11:05pm Text #1 (K): Don't you wish you had lecture tomorrow?

I blink hard and smile.  How sweet! She was right, I did wish I had lecture tomorrow.  I love teaching history. It's ridiculous how happy I am when I'm lecturing, but the next day was the  Monday after Finals week, the day semester grades were due. so no more lectures until August 29.  I'm not awake enough to reply with more than a smile and yawn.

5/1/11 11:10pm Text #2: (Mom): Are you watching CNN?

I wrinkle my nose and blink.  I'm thinking a Kennedy Special is on. Or maybe more stuff about that wedding over across the sea. It was stranger for her to text me this late - she knew I probably wasn't awake or watching CNN, so I replied to her text with a silent "no."

5/1/11 11:11 Text #3:  (C) Osama bin Laden dead.

Now I'm awake. And a little sleepy so I read it again to make sure it didn't say "Saddam Hussein" or "Franklin D. Roosevelt."

I read it right. I didn't answer, because it wasn't a question.

Then my favorite text popped up, the one that got me up out of bed.

5/1/11 11:11 5/1/11 Text #4: (C) We killed him.

I sprung out of bed, landed in front of the TV and scooped up every bit of good news I could with a big spoon and a bigger smile.

I wanted to know then -- and I want to know again, now, when we can we have the big Parade?

No Argument. No Winner. (But I Won)

I'm sitting quietly in my green writing chair, working on a picture I've been painting.

He walks over and looks at it.
I say nothing.
Maybe he'll go away.

Then he looks at me.
I still say nothing.
Really, maybe he'll go away.

Then he looks in my hand.
I say nothing (brilliantly,  by this point, I might add -)
Really, doesn't he have somewhere to go?

"Is that your new Sharpie?"

"Yes!" I smile and admire (again) the handy chiseled tip that helps me make funky artsy letters.

"Well......that's NOT a Sharpie," he says, and then spins on his heels and walks, clearly away satisfied his message has been fully conveyed. 

Because I don't bother contradicting him with reality (example: the words "Sharpie" on the pen),  I win the argument  and the universe rewards with more time (alone) to draw and to write, happily and quietly. 

Let go. Grow.

For eleven days it lay broken on the floor, a shoe with its heel twisted at an impossibly wrong angle, a crime scene that would make any Jimmy Choo-loving woman wretch.

My favorite shoes suffered this break on a particular day when I was lecturing for another professor. After class, while I was turning off the computer, I leaned back on the heels of my gorgeous high heels and (forgetting they aren't made of steel...) "click" the heel popped off.

So off I hobbled, to my office (no extra shoes there) to my car (nope, no shoes there) then home, where there were shoes... but not the ones I wanted.

That's OK, I told myself.  Be open to new shoes. The universe is full of wonderful things, make room for something new....

I placed my broken shoes in a corner, by my home office, and tried not to look at them.

But despite my best efforts and best intentions, I just couldn't throw those gorgeously carved wooden platform leather topped shoes away.

Then again, I couldn't fix them.

These awesomely perfect shoes were a super amazing sale find of $12.   It would make more sense to buy new (cheap) shoes than to bring these (cheap and broken shoes)  to the dreaded shoe man (with that awful shoe smell) and ask for help.

For almost two weeks, I shopped and shopped but no other shoe had the right heel, the same lift, that exact color and texture that made me smile.

Nothing looked good enough. Nothing looked right.  I didn't even try a single shoe on.

(Note to self: "investigate serial shoe monogamy")

Then yesterday a surge of courage and hope rolled over me.

I picked up the tube of Gorilla glue that normally terrifies me (what if it spills? what if I glue the washing machine closed? wonder what it smells like.....?)  and decided that I would find a way to stick that heel back on.

 At first it didn't work, but I tried again with more glue and a steadier hand until the heel stuck back up against the rest of the shoe, flat, strong and stable like it should be.

So if you see me smiling a little more than I should be today, you'll have to forgive me -- I'm wearing my favorite shoes and thinking about what they taught me.

It's great to let go and grow, but some things are worth fixing.

Camp Mommy: Under Attack*

It is  after lunch and before what would be afterschool if they were in school which they are not because its Spring Break.

Zack is sitting on my lap quietly.

We rock back and forth, silently. He's tired, I'm tired.

No, maybe not tired. Peaceful.

Yes, the two of us both feel calm and peaceful.

The spell is almost broken by  loud metallic crash in the other room, and Zoe almost-cursing (Dannngggrrrrrr...UGH!) in a loud whisper to herself.

She doesn't call for either of us.

She doesn't say she's hurt.

I can hear her breathing heavy, like she's lifting or pulling or fixing something challenging.

Zack and I stay quiet, still slowly rocking back and forth, resting in each other's peaceful company.

Then I hear her a loud dial tone come out of the speakerphone in the other room.

So... it sounds like she hurt herself.... trying to dial the phone?

It seems so, Zack answers quickly, then hugs me, as if I even a little bit had entertained getting up and saving Zoe from the horrible dangerous phone.

We laugh together for a minute, then he slides off my lap and slips away to bug his sister, as if inanimate objects weren't enough for her to battle on this lovely day at Camp Mommy.

Camp Mommy Day #1: Big (Crafty) Love

I leave the house early early and shorten office hours to spend time with my kids who are on their Spring Break (which is never the same as my Spring Break, but I've had Spring Break every year since 1986 so I'm not complaining).

Two  minutes after the sitter leaves the house, both of my normally happy kids are twisting and climbing around me with complaints like sticky thorns... what is there to DO? Where are we going to GO? But I'm BORED!....

So I packed the kids off to Michael's Craft Store, telling them I was going to buy plastic flowers for our yard because Tita said they use them in Cuba and it really works.

They believe me.

So the three of us walked around that store for a good hour while I picked up 50% Daisies (in teal, in white, in orange, in purple, in black, in pink) and then Irises and then Petunias and matched them in bunches and them in rows and considered them and put them down.

Then decided I couldn't live without them and generally pretended that I would really stick plastic flowers outside my house without the supervision of a real Cuban.

In between all of that general wandering around, we find cheap things for the kids to do and make. 

 Of course, I didn't buy the plastic flowers.  In my entire life I have never been seized (more than once or twice) with the urge to buy plastic flowers.  And that was the 1990s.  And I've put that all behind me.

 $11 later and we are home, each kid armed with 50% off craft supplies and happy mood from a nice car drive on a sunny day.

This means one thing. Time off for Mommy.

I know, I know, in real camp, someone would supervise the children.

But I taught the Vietnam War this morning. I shaved my legs, I've had meetings.

My 9-5 is 5-1, and it's already 4pm and I have another shift (dinner, whatever, darkness, sleep) before repeating it all tomorrow. I slip  away from the happy kids to take off my dress, take off my heels and put on my yoga pants.

I cuddle with a pillow and watch to the Series Finale to Big Love, listening every now and then to the chirping happy-craft-day-at-camp kid voices coming from the room.

I get thirsty and push pause, and leave my warm soft TV spot.

Just as I'm turning the corner I hear Zoe telling Zack (in a sugary sweet hushed tone extra nice nice way), "Remember you're not going to tell Mommy..."

So I bang my fist on the wall, causing them both to jump.

"Tell me, what? That you LOVE me?"

And they laugh, because that isn't what they were talking about at all.

We laugh together and suddenly it does feel like camp again, like last summer when we were all rested and relaxed.

I sneak back to my lunch break before the next shift -- dinner, whatever, whatever, darkness -- and watch the end of Big Love, then, because the kids were so happy, I got to write for a little while.

A Castro By Any Other Name...

Before every unit I give a pretest.

This week, as part of the pretest, I put a picture this of Fidel Castro up and asked, "Who is this?"

In one class, two guys in the front blurted the answer out (in a "duh" tone; I think they thought I was really wondering who was in the picture!), so that class found out the answer quickly.

Out of my other two classes, about 50% correctly identified the man in the picture as Fidel Castro (not all spelled it the same way -  there were a few "Kastro" and some "Feedels"  and a "Phedel"  that I decided to count as sorta correct).

• 23 students thought the image was Osama bin Laden 
• 6 thought the man in the picture was Saddam Hussein
• Stalin(3)
• Tom Cruise (2)
• Liam Neeson (2)
• George W. Bush (2)
• Lincoln, LOL
• Middle Eastern Terroriots
• Theodore Roosevelt 
• Kumar from “White Castle” 
• Che
• Jimmy Frimmel
• Hitler’s cousin Jimmy
• Ben Linden
• John Cock
• John Cain
• Jeff Clain
• Jeff Swindell
• Whodumwhosum
• A smoky guy
• Jose Cuba
• Coy Moses
• My Dad
• Chiba
• Rafiki
• Casa Blanca

Faith

In her perfectly still mind, 

as empty and silent as the Grand Canyon, 

she floated along

on the sound of extinct rivers 

still roaring past

her beautifully carved and scarred

landscape

completely ready 

and absolutely certain

of the water's

return.

Lunch Bunch 1: Leaky Princesses

During my Spring Break, I join Zack and Zoe for lunch at their cafeteria, with their friends.


My son apparently has a harem or something like that because the closest boy to him is eight girls down the line of chattering first graders who all sit on the same side of the table facing empty seats where parents would be if they were visiting.

A tiny girl in front of my with angelic blonde hair and impossibly white teeth nibbles a cheese sandwich "with Mayo!" she proclaims, causing the girls and Zack to wince all grossed out.

They compare lunches, take sips and sit awkwardly.

I spy their high-class icepacks enviously. I can't find where they hide those suckers in the store, or/and when I do find them I think "oh, no, we don't really need new ones..." so I give my kids the same  years-old battered and leaky blue packs, mummified in two feeble layers of zipped baggies.

I point it out to them. You have a soccer ball! Your mom rocks! And you have... an insulated sandwich holder! A+ supermom! And you have... a Princess icepack! Cold princesses, cool! 


 Zack and his harem all giggle,  and I sneak my third mini-muffin from my son's lunchbox.

The girl with the soccer pack adds, "I used to have the Princesses! But they leaked...."

You had to throw it away? I ask, making an exaggeratedly sad face. I understand the sentimentality of the six year old heart.

She nodded, giggling and pretending to be sad. That is my cue. I take a carton of chocolate milk and hold it up as a toast.

A line of girls hold their juiceboxes and thermoses up. Zack smiles proudly, impossible to embarrass.

It's a good policy to throw leaky princesses away. We should all agree to that now. It's a good rule to have for life. No leaky princesses. 

We high-5 each other and a cafeteria aid comes to stand near us and do this clapping thing that translates to "stop making noise, pay attention to me" -- and I stifle my frown.  This is America, we are free to laugh, I want to say, but I don't because I know that's a lesson they'll have to learn on their own.

Lunch Bunch: Part #1 Disposable Princesses

Because I didn't have classes during Spring Break, I was able to join my kids for lunch at the cafeteria.  

The first day, I joined my first grader for

Leaky

Out of the Closet & Easy

Last week I dragged myself in for my infrequent eye exam.

I arrive to my appointment compulsively early as usual, check in, and walk along the cases of frames.

 A man in a suit greets me and I tell him what I'm looking for.

"I love the glasses I have on now - I think they are awesomely Tina Fey. But I need another look, something different and something that goes with my blondier hair," I tell him while he appraises the shape of my face and nods.

 I continue,  "Ever since I became a blonde my daughter won't let me wear these glasses to pick her up at school. That hurts me. Deeply."

I feign a sniff of imagined indignity

He shakes his head laughing and asks, "You haven't always been a blonde?"

I lean over the counter, make sure no one is listening and whisper, "I just became one about a year ago but I feel like I've come out of the closet, like I've been a blonde all along and everyone knew it but me."

He chokes back a laugh.

They call my name and I tell him I'll be back.

I follow a cheerful pink-scrub wearing ponytailed 20-something.

I tell her I'm not going to enjoy this, and she doesn't care.  I like that about her.

I tell her that I hate putting my chin on anything and staring into a box.

She says she understands.

I tell her I hate being asked (cheerfully, even worse) "Which is better? One?" "Two?" "Again?" "One?" "Two?" 

And she agrees that it gets annoying.

Then I tell that I especially hate having my pupils dilated.

She tells me it's not that bad, that it's much lighter and gentler, and that I'll be fine.

I ask her, "are you going to use a speculum?" but she doesn't answer.

Or laugh.

When she leaves the room with my chart in her hand, I pick up my iPhone and with dilated eyes compose a tweet about that.

I feel better.

Soon enough, it is over, I survive and  am rewarded with a prescription for new lenses that are "a little" stronger.

I return to my gentleman at the frames counter, who thankfully is not detained by someone trying on every frame in the shop.

I've been that person.  The narrative went something like: Nothing looks right, nothing looks good, or if it does look good, it's too expensive so show me something that looks like the one I love and can't have but I'll never be happy with it...has it been two hours? I'm so sorry I just haven't quite found anything, but OH how about those? Oh? I tried them already? *sigh*

He greets me and asks me if I'd please indulge him and try a particular pair of frames he thought might look good.

Of course I try them on.

He's a professional glasses-picker.

I trust him.

They are red. They are hip. They are different. They are perfect.

"Thanks!" I say, take them off and hand them to him. "What do we do now?"

His eyebrows furrow. He doesn't understand.

"They're perfect.  I know what I like, and I like these. Now what?"

He silently exhales all his sales-pitching and coaxing and coaching that he won'tbe doing.

I imagine he also happily pockets the patience I'm not going to drain from him, not today.

I follow him to a chair and stay on my best (translation: QUIETEST) behavior while he writes up the details of the order.

I think he's waiting for me to suddenly change my mind, or to freak out about money or something along those lines. I wonder if our uneventfully quick transaction disappoints him.

We shake hands when I stand up and he doesn't say it, so I do.

"You didn't think I was going to be this easy did you?"   

He shakes his head, laughs and then waves at me as I happily leave the store and go back into the world,  out of the closet and easy.

To My Students on Spring Break

As you go where you're merrily going, please do me and the universe a great favor.

Be careful.

Wear your sunscreen, wear your helmet,  wear your seatbelt, and wear your condoms [as relevant].

Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.

Don't drink and drive, don't drive and text, and don't put your precious life in the hands of someone who does.

We have many more stories to live and to tell, more laughs to have and you have so many more wonderful adventures on your path to becoming who you were imagined to become.

Be careful.

Disconnected, Connected

The last time I saw my Mom we were both sick and coughing.

 It was before Christmas.

Since then we've bridged the 500 miles between us with short (coughing) conversations, short email and even shorter texting.

Then the other night my Mom calls and asks me a question about something she'd emailed me and apparently I'd ignored.

"I didn't see that question," I tell her, unrepentant. "I get so many questions on email.... I feel like they're writing assignments....Or I glance at them and think I read them but I didn't... I'm sorry."

Mom doesn't laugh.

I hear her take a deep breath like she's dealing with a teenager and needs to choose her words carefully.

The silence feels like  she is gathering her courage to say something difficult.

Finally she asks, "Melissa. Please. How can I better communicate with you?"

Now she has my full attention.

No one EVER talks to me that way, at least not since I got tenure.

So I finally push PAUSE and tell her the truth.

"Mom, I just discovered Kitchen Nightmares. I mean, all this time, I never saw it, and now I'm catching up and I'm watching two and three of them a day!"

Now we're communicating.

 She suggests that I'd probably also like Top Chef.

 I admit to watching Teen Mom 2,  Pawn Stars, Hardcore Pawn, American Idol, Jersey Shore, Jerseylicious, Shameless, Boardwalk Empire, Tabitha's Salon Takeover, and as I'm trying to remember other things to make my confession complete, I add "OH! AND there's a new America's Next Top Model! Isn't that AWESOME??"

We giggle together, and then, finally, we talk about Abuelo, about Cuba, about things going on in our family, and we talk and talk until my finger itched so badly I *had* to undo the pause button and see Gordon stick his hand into a box of moldy fruit.

My Mom understood this compulsion, and we got off the phone, happily connected again.

My Other Place ---

http://drsoldani.blogspot.com/

From GOD

(From July 2007)

On Saturday morning I packed the kids into the car for errands.


By noon we were back home, Zoe watching TV in her room, Zack positioned at the breakfast bar to watch me cook.

Can I have a spoonful of icing?

Icing? No.
I save that for bribing you or rewarding you for being sooooo brilliant.
How about some muffins?

No. Yuck. Those are Zoe's.

Fine. How about some grapes. They're healthy.

How are they healthy?

I get some from the refrigerator, buying time for a great answer.

Grapes grow from the ground. They're natural. I deposit a plate of grapes in front of them.

Natural?

Yes. Grapes come from God.

He holds on up. GOD is in this grape?

Yes!

Zack pretends to hug the grape, then eats it.

Is God everywhere?

Yes.

Is God in your boobies?



I laugh and look down to admire them, then turn to the cabinet.



Would you like chocolate or vanilla icing?

Donald Duck' Awkward VD Poster

WW2 VD Posters

Please. Stop. Staring.

I’m feeling much better and almost up to my usual breakneck speed.

I leave my office (and the line of invisible students who never seem to come to office hours) to check the faculty room for donuts and/or interesting people to talk to.

Before I can enter the room I see something that stops me in my tracks.

I spin on my shiny black patent heels that have cute rosebuds over the peek-a-boo toes and walk into the staff room.

Four women, of a variety of ages from 20 to 45 working by phones and computers look up.

I untie my scarf, then announce, “She’s staring at my crotch. I can’t go in there.”

They all stop. They are silent.

 I repeat myself.

“She’s staring at my crotch. Inappropriately. I can’t go in there.”

Because no one gets up to help, I pull Charlotte up to see.

There, on the door, I tell her, pointing to the culprit  -- an important flyer posted at crotch level  that included a cool glamour-shot photo of the presenter. 

Charlotte scowls for a minute then – in her magical way --- agrees with me while denying me …“Look at her gaze, clearly she’s staring at MY crotch…”

An artistically gifted work study student takes credit for posting the flyer, and at that the conversation turns to me, pulling my scarf on and off and on and off, retying it, taking it off again. 

“Why are you flashing us so much today?” asks a beleaguered worker.

I shake my head. “Not flashing, deciding. Is this scarf too much for WW2? I think it might say Cold War.”

Another beleaguered worker answers, “No, wear it… it breaks things up.”

I nod, then agree, repeating her advice.

“Yes, yes, break things up for WW2. I’m ready…..” and off I go into professorland, fixing my scarf so it hangs straight down, covering every bit of my cleavage from that inappropriately staring woman in that flyer.

I'm the One They Warned You About

I believe that one small act of chocolate kindness  can make a ridiculously big difference in someone's day, so over my many years of professoring I've developed a ritual of bringing lots and lots of candy for my students on Valentine's Day.

Each year after I pass bowls of candies around my classes there is always a ton of candy left, so I've make it a habit and ritual to walk the halls of my building offering Valentine's Candy to students sprawled on the floor texting, students standing in the halls whispering, and other students generally milling around doing what students do in college hallways between classes.

And each year -- no matter what candy I offer -- students respond the same.

With widened eyes and serious frowns, they say "no."

All of them.

Always.

"No, no thank you, no candy, thanks."

I offer again, again and again.

And they always turn away a little and whisper again, again, and again, "No, really, no thanks..."

And as I walk away, I know what they're thinking, whispering and texting "FINALLY! A STRANGER just offered me CANDY!. I know I'm supposed to say NO to strangers offering candy, but no stranger has actually been kind enough to offer my candy, so finally I was tested and I passed the test!!!  Yay! I passed the test!!"

So I take my bowl of candy back to my office, thankful to have played a small (and non-toxic) part in other people's holiday,  and offer myself a small act of chocolate ....and laugh.

Happy Valentines Day*

Monkey Girl

It's a sweltering Sunday morning in August, and I'm helping my friend pack her house into a horse trailer so she can leave Tallahassee, leave me, go far away and be a professor in Palm Beach.

That's OK. She will be happier there.

She hates moving, so I keep things light.

I brought drinks for everyone, and post-it notes so I could stick silly dirty notes into her boxes.

Around noon, her almost-fiance leaves with a friend to pack a bed from his house.

Power Man is an unusually large man whose "day job" is a powerful position.

He is a man who is used to commanding respect and holding people's attention.

He also is bigger than 300 pounds and completely bald... but I can't write that, can I?

No one has appointed him chief engineer of the moving van, but he has assumed that title and power that goes with it.

Each and every (motherf*ing) time his engineering hit a glitch, he called for Monkey Girl to climb over the boxes, through the little air space, over the headboards and move things.

Each time, Monkey Girl did what she was asked. Enthusiastically and proudly.

Monkey Girl is flexible, fits into small spaces, and gets a huge buzz out of winning small missions.

So anyway, off goes Power Man for an hour to get something.

Monkey Girl (a mover) and Ms. Jackson (the moveee) end up in the airconditioning.

Ms. Jackson (who, shhhh, has MS and fibromyalgia) gives me the look.

That look.

The one that says please please forget all the boxes, just use your strong and accurate hands to rub my back.

15 minutes later, Ms. Jackson is facedown on the floor in a pool of drool as I work yoga positions on and with her, stretching, pulling and threatening her muscles.

By the time power man comes back, Ms. Jackson is smiling, no longer in pain, no longer as anxious.

Monkey Girl? I need you to climb under that sideways bookcase, go to the other side of the mattress, stand on the sofa and dislodge that rocking chair leg. Then slip this rug between the two.

Fine. I grab the rug, hustle to my mission, thinking I'm leaving the lovebirds.

He follows.

Minutes later, drenched in sweat, I emerge triumphant.

He mops his face with a towel.

Where did you learn these amazing Monkey Girl moves?

I smile right into his beet red face.

On top of your girlfriend.

I flash him the peace sign, and dash back into the airconditioning.

Soon after that, I left the moving party, went back to mommyland.

But as far as I know, Power Man is still standing there, speechless.

Name This Dictator --

On the PRETEST for Unit #2,  put up a picture of Benito Mussolini and asked them to fill in the blanks:

This is ___________, leader of ___________. 

Ten students (out of 76) correctly identified him by name and associated him with Italy. 

The rest…. Well…..  Here is a sampling:

Jefferson; US

Jerry King, Leader of Hitler’s Army

Fester Adams; ?

Hector; Guam

Mr. Clean; Russia

General Cobbs; Congress

General Cromwell; US Army

Lennon; Russia

General Patton; US Army

Hamler; Russia

Mow; France

Putin; France

Bob; Germany

Serious Man; Leader of Insane Asylum

Hugo; Bulgaria

Gorbachev; Russia

Jean-Paul; ?

Steve Wilkos; Russia

General Baldo; Japan

Sherman; Shermanville

Curly; Soviets

WW2, In Vivid Color (sorta)

Today I put up a picture of FDR and asked my students: "Who was the President of the US during WW2 and how many times was he elected?"


Answers (in no particular order):

• ·      Nickson. 3x
• ·      Kenedy. 2x.
• ·      John Hay. 2x.
• ·      Bush. 2x.
• ·      Franklin Roosevelt. 2x.
• ·      Woodrow Wilson. 9x. (Nine? 36 years of Wilson?!)
• ·      Abraham Lincoln. 1x.
• ·      Adams. 4x.
• ·      Truman. 2x.
• ·      FDR. 2x.
• ·      Theodore Roosevelt. 2x.
• ·      Wilson. 3x
• ·      Teddy Roosevelt. 3x.
• ·      Nixon. “Was elected in harsh times.”
• ·      F. Roosevelt. 3x.
• ·      Franklin Roosevelt. 2x.
• ·      T. Roosevelt. 2x.
• ·      Grover Cleveland. 1x.
• ·      Truman. 3x.
• ·      Franklin Theodore Roosevelt. 3x.
• ·      John Adams. 2x.
• ·      Nixon. 2x.
• ·      Eisenhower. 1x.
• ·      FDR. A lot of times.
• ·      A creepy old man. 3x.
• ·      Hay. 2x.
• ·      Johnson. 0 times. [1]
• ·      Teddy Roosevelt. 4x.
• ·      FDR. 2x.
• ·      Teddy. “Elected in warfare times.”
• ·      Franklin D. Roosevelt. 4x.
• ·      F.D.R., 3x.
• ·      Teddy Roosevelt. 2x.
• ·      Lyndon Johnson. 2x.
• ·      Franklin Roosevelt. 4x.
• ·      Woodrow Wilson. 2x.
• ·      Ford. 12x. Not.
• ·      Hamilton. 3x.
• ·      Nixon. 4x.
• ·      Jefferson. 2x.

---

[1] Tricky. 

·    

Politely Looking Away: Wikileaks and Sneaky Peaks

I just read an article about ROTC students not being allowed to read Wikileaks material.  According  Col. Charles M. Evans, commanding officer of the 8th Brigade, U.S. Army Cadet Command "using the classified information found on WikiLeaks for research papers, presentations, etc. is prohibited."


As a Professor -- an exceptionally curious one who teaches US Foreign Policy -- I thought I would wildly and vehemently disagree with Col. Evans. 


I mean, who is HE to tell students what resources they can use? Who is ANYONE to limit academic inquiry? 


Then I turned the question on myself.


When I first heard of Wikileaks, I drooled at the idea of so many raw primary sources waiting to be picked, read, analyzed, contextualized and (insert joyful sigh) synthesized. 


I decided I would dive into Wikileaks documents and find a way to make an assignment so that my students (too many of whom think the Taliban, lead by Saddam Hussein, attacked us on 9/11/2001) could dive into the current wars and understand them better.


But despite my early enthusiasm, I still haven't created that assignment, mostly because I can't bring myself to read Wikileaks.  


Why? The material there isn't for me.


It isn't for public consumption.


The documents on Wikileaks were stolen from my country, and I feel like reading it would be akin to poking through a neighbor's drawers or going through a student's purse when they leave the room. 


Perhaps I'm waiting for the feeling that reading classified state documents is "wrong" to pass.


Until then,  I will steadfastly and politely and patriotically continue to  avert my eyes.

Death, Silk and Dust*

It's an hour before my first lecture and I've been in my office since dawn doing the "things" I do in the morning (write lectures, answer emails, youtube videos).

My door is open for once, so I look up when she walks towards my door.

At first I think its one of my students (what? coming to my office before an exam? really??!)  but it's one of our awesome departmental work study students.

I was a work study student in the History Dept at Loyola when I was an undergrad, so I take mentoring work study students seriously.

"I hear you might be mentally unstable today...." she says as she stops in my doorway, smiling face framed by heavy bangs and long hair.

I know exactly what she's talking about.

 Earlier this morning as I walked by a huge round planter that I walk by ten times a day and  stopped to feel some of the leaves of what I thought was a towering bamboo plant.

It was fake.

 It was a fake silk plant, pretending to be bamboo.

Then I felt more leaves and there was definitely a dead bamboo plant in the planter, brown and dried.

On the bottom of the planter, dusty silk plants in purples and greens spilled over.

Mortified,  I told the people who NEED to know (and they KNOW who they are) that there is a dead dead plant and a fake plant coexisting in the hallway and everyone is walking by it like it's just FINE to walk by death.

And they laughed.

So I laughed and went back to my office.

That's when she showed up and asked about my mental stability.

"Oh I'm stable, alright. My plants are ALIVE. And I have my new shoes on....don't worry about me! " (I lifted my leg up way above my head so she could appreciate the glory of these black clogs...)

"I guess you're doing fine then," she said before she left.

And that's how my day is going -- the usual mix of laughter, history, death, silk and dust*

The Last Sunday (Cow Penis) Supper

Sunday went something like this.

I got up super duper early and -- because just this once I finally could -- I went to Publix just as it opened at 7am to do the grocery I've been putting off for over a week.

By 8am I am home again, lugging more meat and fruit and veggies than this house has seen all year. I unload, sort and put things away and settle into a long morning of grading.

Around noon I put a pork tenderloin in the oven and start pots of black beans and rice. Soon enough, the house smells like garlic and love.

When the roast finishes, I take it out and let it rest on the counter.

Zoe takes one look at it, and despite the fact that pork roast is her favorite food, pronounces it is a COW PENIS and she isn't going to eat it.

I try to tell her cows don't have penises. I try to tell her pork isn't cow.

She refuses to listen.

She refuses to even try it.

Zack looks at it (respectfully, and maybe a little awed) shakes his head  and refused to even try it.

Fine, fine, I tell her to make herself a sandwich, and that I'm not cooking any more today.

 She settles back into Hannah Montana (the LAST ONE EVER) and I finish grading my quizzes.

When I'm all done recording grades, alphabetizing them, and putting them away, I head to the kitchen to try the pork.

It is juicy. It is crispy. It's the best damn pork I ever made, so I declare a small holiday and make myself a sandwich with it on Cuban bread.

 It's so good I want to dance while I eat it.

Until about two hours later when I got an outrageously bad feeding,  dash to toilet and and throw it up.

Honestly, as far as throwing up goes, that wasn't the worst ever. It was fast and it didn't taste bad at all.

 I remember when I was in labor for Zoe and I had just eaten a blueberry donut, then a minute later threw it up and it looked and tasted almost exactly the same. Laughing between contractions I announced that I finally understood why dogs ate their vomit.  An hour later, I became a parent, and since then I've been struggling with what to feed myself and my kids.

Zoe stands outside the door while the waves of what I decide are food poisoning roll over me.

She comforts me with her words, and when I stop wretching, admonishes me, saying this is what I get for  eating the cow penis.

I'm too tired to fight.

 I nap.

Later, Zoe and Zack eat Subway for dinner.

Zoe has her usual 6" turkey with an entire salad on it.

 Zack orders a 12' ham sandwich, uncut.

Uncut, I ask him, you sure?

Yes, he said, eyeing his sandwich in front of him.

I want it to be as big as that Cow Penis from earlier today, he says with a big smile.

And  now you know exactly when and where and why I gave up on cooking Sunday dinner.